


a smile that explodes

by liberate



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst & Romance, Character Growth, Character Study, Drabble Collection, M/M, One Shot Collection, a big poetic angsty mess, all the things about them thrown together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liberate/pseuds/liberate
Summary: you can't even fix yourself, so how are you supposed to fix all of this – haven, the mage revolution, you're not even human and yet everyone expects you to understand, to sympathize, to repair – lead them, or fall.you are ready to fall, but instead, you fall for him and the brilliance of his smile.[a collection]





	1. you're the universe, i'm helpless

**Author's Note:**

> i'm doing this thing again where i join a new fandom ~~and the first thing i'm writing is a mess of a multi-chapter character study in the same writing style~~. _i don't regret a thing._ (i lied, this is now a collection of all the canonverse things i write about them thrown together. not even the same writing style.)
> 
> i _adore_ those two characters. honestly, i haven't played through inquisition yet, but this will simply be a collection of scenes that i really want to write about. there will probably be a lot more angst. aatami is an anxious mess with a ton of issues but a good heart. the title is taking from _a smile that explodes_ from joseph arthur, because the song fits them so genuiely well that i cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He walks into the room and your mind goes _oh. he's brilliant_.

 

 

 

That's everything there is, and it's not even rational, the opposite – it's not a proper thought for the situation you are in, with lives on the line, the weight of the mage conflict on your shoulders, demon remains shattered across the Chantry floor, your boots are sticky with ashes and dirt and you can't remember the last good night of sleep you have gotten. Your own weight is wearing you down, the weight of the world is wearing you out, and it will only get worse from here on. You know that.

 

 

 

It's all that's on your mind, the world around you, the worried looks the people shot you, the decisions expected from you out of nowhere, the white-knuckled grip around your staff while dealing with bandits, with monsters, with wolves, templars, apostates, and some days you wonder if the whole world wants to kill your little Inquisition that's not even _really_ yours. You spend your nights staring at the ceiling of a house that's not yours in a town that's not your home, counting mistakes of the last hours, you get up in the morning, limbs stiff and each movement is a pain, and when Cassandra asks you how you are coming along, you smile and tell her that it's your duty to keep going and that you are happy to follow that duty.

 

 

 

It's your duty to bear that weight alone, you figure, and it's the most stupid thing you've believed in a long while.

 

 

 

It's a mess, but it's not even that big of a mess in the beginning. It's just – the smile you shoot him is the first in days that doesn't feel glued upon your face, and _maybe_ it's just because he's very pretty, standing there, the exploding rift sharpening his features into a ghostly green shape, but somewhere along the line you realize it's the way he forms his words, lets them tumble from his tongue, so casual it almost feels inappropriate, but it's just _help me out here, Aatami_ , not _carry the weight of the world for me, Aatami, fix everything everyone has broken and also the hole in the sky_.

 

 

 

He just smiles and offers his help without anyone asking him to, kicks down a door to enter the weird mission you caught yourself up in, kicks down the neat borders you've put up around yourself – eventually, you will watch them all shatter to the ground, but in the beginning, he's your respite in the middle of a hurricane, he's the breather after a long day, when you laugh along at one of his sarcastic remarks only to pause and wonder what just happened. But in the end, you shrug it off, because you _love_ all of them, the weird kind of love that's flawed and bruised, born from catastrophe, a mess, destined to crack eventually, and you look at them, Cullen teaching the recruits, offering them one of his rare smiles that make his face look softer, the worried looks Cassandra shoots you when you pretend not to notice, the glimmer in Varrics' eyes at the beginning of the story he's about to tell, Leliana and her prayers, Iron Bull and your seemingly endless conversations about the Qunari, and you never really run out of questions, even without the time to really talk.

 

 

 

You look at them and feel something that's dangerously close to _hope_.

 

 

 

It takes you endless weeks to notice that you look at him and still see the same brilliance you saw at the first time, no matter how much blood is splattered across his robes, no matter how angry he is, how desperate, there's a core to him that's made of light and you just _know_ that the Venatori, that all the gods in the world could pull the stars from the sky and his light would be bright enough to outshine them all. It's a pathetic thought, too poetic for your practical mind, but he's the universe and you're helpless.

 

 

 

You never really talk about what happened with Alexius. In a weird way, you do – you rephrase and recreate the vision to Cassandra, to Leliana without being able to look her in the eye, you tell Bull what a mess it all was. Of course, you talk to Dorian, about Alexius, about the mages, about fate, about himself, about religion, you find reasons and excuses to venture back to where he spends most of his time in Haven, to simply talk to him again. You could talk to him about it, could bring it up, what you witnessed, but the words don't seem to come out right, because sometimes, words aren't enough. They spend a lifetime of pretending to be enough, but in the end, they are imperfect tools trying to cage feelings that aren't meant to be caged.

 

 

 

In another universe, you have a drink, a couple drinks, let the alcohol burn your system until you can see the stars in his eyes more clearly, even if they blur every time you blink. In another universe, your _I saw them die for me_ is husky and raw and tears your throat apart, but you don't bury it. _I don't want anyone to die for me._

 

 

 

_But you'd die for all of us. You'd die for the idea of this Inquisition without a second thought, Aatami._

 

 

 

He is right and you hate it, but in this universe, he'll only tell you months later, in this universe, you are let alone with the idea that no one else sees through you when in reality, everyone does. No one is fooled by your remarks and smiles, even if they are honest – when you flirt and joke, it's as honest as you can manage, but you play it cool when in reality, you care _so much_. You can't even fix yourself, so how are you supposed to fix all of this – Haven, the mage revolution, you're not even human and yet everyone expects you to understand, to sympathize, to repair – _lead them, or fall._

 

 

 

You are ready to fall, but instead, you fall for him and the brilliance of his smile.

 

 

 

 _This is not how the story is supposed to go_ , you think, to yourself, and maybe you are right – maybe you changed the course of history another time, but differently, maybe this wasn't supposed to happen, but sometimes you forget how painfully mortal you are, when people make you a chosen one of a god that's not your god, but sometimes you can't get out of bed in the morning and sometimes you laugh at dumb jokes and sometimes you cry for the fallen and it surprises yourself the most. Sometimes, your heart makes the wrong choices – and you have no idea where this one will lead.

 

 

 

All you want to be is a mage in love, but instead you are an elf with a million ways to doom, waiting for fate to roll a dice, not daring to hope for a good ending of this telling. _Well, do you think there's hope for this world?_ , he asks, at some point, and you look up, to the breach in the sky, and shrug. _There's always hope_ , you say, but you don't say _for this world, but maybe not for me_ , because nobody likes brooding, pessimistic heros. Even you don't like them. _You say a lot of things, but do you believe them?_

 _Sometimes,_ it's the closest you've ever gotten to admit that you pretend, and you don't like it, because you haven't known him for long and yet he was there, watching you struggle against the will of your _other_ companions, the companions that suffered for you and you want to beg him to leave before it gets worse. And it will get worse.

 

 

 

He's a dalliance while you think about love when you look at him, and you want to carve the thoughts out of your bones, because they talk of a future without a present, and you want to look at him like everyone else does, but instead you look at him like he's a constellation and you've been staring the empty night sky for far too long.

 

 

 


	2. with fingers intertwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _aatami hesitates, or at least he really wants to hesitate, because it's the middle of the night and they are in the library and he feels so weary and worn-out, but it's the middle of the night and they are in the library and no one is around and no one will be around and kissing dorian feels so much better than the nightmares._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to keep all of these the same style, but i somehow need a place to dump all the stuff that i write about them, so this will become the place™. a friend on twitter inspired me to write this, and even if it was kind of out of my comfort zone, i really feel like the work payed off.  
>   
> title and inspiration are from _i'm a mess_ from ed sheeran.  
>   
>  (warning: contains mild smut. it was meant to be a smut prompt, in the beginning, but i transformed it into 1,7k words of angst and 300 words of smut. and the smut is not even _real_ smut.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_when i feel down, i want you above me._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aatami has made a habit of curling up in the library at this point – he never meant to, but he can't wander Skyhold _all_ night long, especially since he never has a hint of where exactly some of the people sleep, if they sleep at all, and he has no desire to run into Cole in the middle of the night, because no matter how much he likes the boy, he simply preferes his solitude over company. He prefers watching the moon set over Skyhold, the light weirdly illuminating the Elfroots in the garden, the rough wind on the castle walls, clouds hastily vanishing into the dark of the winter sky.

 

 

 

A part of him hopes he'll still be alive when the summer comes, because he _loves_ Skyhold with all his heart, loves the vast walls and towers, the hidden wine cellar and short cuts, loves his quarters, even if they feel empty to him, especially at night, when he's the only breathing soul in the dark with only the wind howling against the windows and curtains, when all the nightmares come crashing down on him and no one is there to hold him – he _could_ ask, and he knows plenty of people would offer themselves to him, he's the Inquisitor, after all – maybe sleeping with him comes with more benefits, and he figures most people are desperate enough to give it a shot.

 

 

 

Except he's not desperate enough to let anyone see him as desperate as he is.

 

 

 

So instead he roams Skyhold all night, slow footsteps on the stone floor, when the weather isn't as chilly as it is at the moment, he finds himself in the garden, staring up at the cloudy night sky, his hand itching and burning like it ushers him to do something, _go slay some demons at least, if you are too stupid to sleep_ , but of course he even manages to fail his own hand. But right now, the night sky is too often covered in snowflakes, drifting towards the grass, clinging to his hair like the white color draws them to it, but of course that's just his imagination, imagination that's far too vivid for his own good, ever since the fade – he sees the spiders everywhere, especially at night, from the corner of his eyes, but when he looks, they vanish, creeping back into the shadows, whispering of betrayal and despair. He understands them, these days, clearly, and sometimes he wants to beg them to stay, to tell him what to do.

 

 

 

Instead he finds himself in the library again, crouched on the window sill, his head leaning against the cold glass, and even here it's cold enough for his breath to collapse into white smoke, with only embers left in the fireplace. The world is awfully cold and awfully quiet and he feels so desperately lonely – if carving his heart of his chest with his bare hands would give him company, he would do it, only for something else to be on his mind except the burning sensation of phantom pain in his hand.

He thinks a lot about giving up, during the nights, and putting himself together each morning with little sleep and dark circles under his eyes gets harder each day – he dreams about being a Dwarf, sometimes, if only for the unability to dream. Instead, the only way for him to avoid the dreams is to keep himself from sleeping, and it's not half as hard as it's supposed to be at this point.

 

 

 

“Shouldn't you, of all people, be resting?”

 

 

 

His first instinct is his staff, but it's not there, not where it should be – instead he just bangs his ellbow against the old stone and flinches at the sudden pain. _this is skyhold_ , he tells himself, _i am save here_. Truth is, he thought he was save in Haven, and none of them was,

and he's not save in Skyhold either because there's not a place in the world where Corypheus can't find him.

It takes him everything to push the thought away and to breathe.

 

 

 

“Are you alright? Aatami?”

 

 

 

Something about the way he says his name makes him snap back into reality, except reality isn't _much_ better than the inside of his head, but at least there's Dorian, so that's a plus. He's moved closer, in the dim light of the library, and Aatami wants to sigh, because he of all people had to find him here and lying to Dorian feels just like beating the odds – it gets harder every time. He desperately wants him to leave, while at the same time he wants nothing more than him to stay – except maybe a night of good sleep and the world to be at peace again, but it's a close call. Wanting Dorian this much is dangerous, even worse than dangerous, it's mad and foolish and Aatami hopes it will only ruin him, not both of them. He can handle a little more ruination, he figures.

 

 

 

He blinks. “Yes. Everything is fine.”

“You know I'd love to believe you, but this”, Dorian's gesture involves the whole room in a very vague way, but Aatami figures he means the fact that they are talking in the library at night, while both of them really should be sleeping, “doesn't really support your statement.” Aatami resist the urge to cross his arms in hopeless defence, because there's no use. That doesn't mean he likes where this is going – because a part of him knows what Dorian is about to say. “I just like being out here.”

“We are in a building.” Aatami doesn't want to roll his eyes, but he ends up doing it anyways, and Dorian's grin is only a shadow of his usual smile, like he's happy to see _him_ happy, and the thought feels tempting and dangerous.

“I like Skyhold at night”, he admits, and Dorian tilts his head, “it feels peaceful. Calm. It makes me feel better.”

“Who exactly are you lying to?”, it's not even a real question and Aatami feels the anxiety clawing their way up in his throat. He gulps it down again, resting heavily in his stomach, pulsing against his ribcage next to the responsibilities.

 

 

 

“Well, what do you want to hear?”, there's desperation seeping through his voice that he can't control and he hates himself for it.

Dorian reaches out to him, half a moment, until his fingers hover over Aatami's chest, and there's a sadness that's unfamiliar in his eyes, until Aatami understands that it mirrors his own. For the first time in years, he feels like crying, no matter if someone is witnessing it.

“All the lies you tell yourself, or the truth – _whatever you want to tell me_ , Aatami.”

“What if I don't want to tell you anything?”, his bare willpower keeps his voice from cracking.

For a blink of a moment Dorian's fingers brush across his cheek.

“I'm not going anywhere, you know. You have enough stuff to care about, I don't need to trouble you even more.”

“I'd like trouble as long as it involves you”, he jokes, because what he really wants to say is _yes, i need some peace and quiet, but i'd rather spend all of this by your side than alone_ , and if this is supposed to be casual, he isn't good at it.

 

 

 

Dorian's chuckle is almost quiet. “I appreciate it, but I think more trouble is really not what you need.”

“Maybe you're right”, he sighs, half-hearted. “Of course I'm right.” He admires Dorian, sometimes, most times, for his seemingly unshakeable confidence, because Dorian believes in it so much more than Aatami does in his own confidence, but he figures it gets a lot harder being the Herald of Andraste, because how much confidence is a chosen one of a god supposed to have? It's a selfish thought, but he can't push it away, no matter how hard he tries.

“If you know me that well, what _do_ I need?”, this time, Aatami almost smiles, and maybe it's what Dorian does to him – not getting him away from the breaking point, but instead he simply offers him a hand to take a couple of steps back.

 

 

 

He pretends to be thinking about it, but Aatami can see the humour in his eyes.

“At least twelve hours of sleep, a decent meal, a break, and oh, me, of course.”

Aatami raises an eyebrow at the wink Dorian adds to the end of the sentence – the sad thing is, he's right, about all of those things, but maybe it's not that sad after all. “Being Inquisitor is a full time job”, he adds in reply, but Dorian rolls his eyes.

“You're only human, sometimes you should act like it. Just take a break.”

“Technically, I'm not human”, Aatami smirks, but it vanishes quickly. “I can't just take a break, Dorian. It wouldn't be fair. There are people out there who need me, or what I stand for, I can't just -” A gesture shuts him up.

“Aatami, no one benefits from you working yourself to death. And I mean, you weren't working here at night.” He has a point, and Aatami isn't fond of the point. He avoids eye contact, stares at the dark book shelves instead, trying to form words that don't really come out right. Dorian reaches out to him again, but this time, his hands linger, cupping his face. His voice is barely a whisper. “I could help you out with taking a break. Even if that's indeed very selfish of me, but maybe we would both gain.”

 

 

 

Aatami hesitates, or at least he really wants to hesitate, because it's the middle of the night and they are in the library and he feels so weary and worn-out, but it's the middle of the night and they are in the library and no one is around and no one will be around and kissing Dorian feels so much better than the nightmares.

 

 

 

He wants to kiss him again as soon as they part – Aatami wants a lot of things while wanting none at all, he wants the world to be okay and he wants to be okay and he wants Dorian so much it _hurts_ , fingers entangled in his hair, pale skin against brown strands of soft hair and Aatami clings to it, clings to Dorian like he's his only lifeline and maybe he is.

 

 

 

His back collides with one of the bookshelves and the laughter that bubbles up in his chest feels too real to deny it, because what they are doing is _ridiculous_ , and maybe ridiculous was exactly what he needed. “How will you ever spend time in this library again”, he breathes the words out, and somehow Dorian manages to undo the buttons of his shirt without looking, faster than Aatami himself would've managed it. “With fond memories”, he smirks, and it's not even a real reply, but Aatami doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything except his hands in Dorian's hair and Dorian's hands on him and teeth and skin and harsh breathes.

 

 

 

It's a chaotic mess, but it's exactly what he needed, too fast to think, he's left with nothing except his body, reacting, craving, and he's very glad that no one else will see him like this, their _Herald of Andraste_ , except he's just Aatami, and Dorian's name is the only thing left on his mind and it's the only prayer he'll ever need, a moaned prayer for absolution, and he lets himself fall apart in Dorian's arms, in a different way than he had expected, but it doesn't matter – none of it does, they are just two nameless people in a giant universe, colliding, interlocking their lives, and when Dorian kisses him, breathlessly, Aatami buries his face in Dorian's shoulder, whispering his name, a mess of limbs and skin and chaos, but with Dorian's arms wrapped around him, he almost feels whole. Almost okay.

 

 

 

“Stay with me”, he whispers, and his voice _cracks_.

“As long as you want me to”, Dorian mumbles against his neck, pulling him closer, only a little.

Aatami's “What if that means staying forever?” is choked, almost painful, and he lifts his head long enough to see Dorian smile.

“I would give forever my best try for you.”

 

 

 

Aatami falls asleep in his quarters, arms wrapped around Dorian's upper body, and for the first time in months, his sleep is dreamless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
